Ancient Castle

An ancient stone castle, its gray walls soon to merge with the twilight darkness, the sound of rain, the smell of rain, the air that can only exist during rain. And a beautiful woman, proudly standing by the window, alone, gazing into the distance at the water-swollen road leading to the castle...

The earth still remembers the heat of the summer sun, so a whitish mist rises from the green lawns spread before the majestic structure; the mist swirls even thicker from the nearby forest, which in the encroaching darkness seems so mysterious, distant, enigmatic... Thin white clouds of mist hover above the ground, worsening the already poor visibility, and

they seem to strive to merge with the low-hanging dark gray clouds from which the rain pours incessantly.

The woman does not take her eyes off the sodden road, which, winding whimsically, disappears into the dense forest...

The sound of a babbling small stream, flowing like a silver ribbon behind the castle, mixes with the cheerful crackling of a fireplace in a wide, yet cozily furnished room. Plush carpets on the walls alternate with ancient armor and weapons; on the floor, there are snow-white, warm pelts of unseen animals. On the walls, whimsical shadows dance from the uneven flame of the fireplace.

An ancient dark castle, so ancient that even the stones themselves, whose memory is among the longest, cannot tell whose hands laid them here, in this mysterious and alluring place of pristine beauty. Whose will tore them from the clutches of darkness in the unimaginable depths of the earth and brought them here, building something that seemed utterly unnatural to this place, yet, nevertheless, so harmoniously and fittingly combined with it.

Only the woman knew this, frozen like a beautiful statue by the window in one of the fortress towers, the mere sight of the thickness and strength of whose walls could utterly quash the desire of even the most desperate commander to lead troops to storm it. Her elegant, tall figure held an incomprehensible threat and hidden power. Delicate facial features, a straight nose, a strong-willed mouth framed by scarlet lips, and eyes of icy sky-blue, combined with wavy hair the color of dark gold reaching to the middle of her back, made the woman resemble a goddess unknown to this world. And who knows, as the wise ancient elders might say, perhaps this is not so far from the truth.

With the onset of night, the rain only grew stronger. The already dark clouds thickened more and more, making the sky now seem like a gateway to an incomprehensible, boundless darkness. Only the whimsically twisting branches of lightning, beginning to be born somewhere in the depths of this gloomy chaos, momentarily illuminated the black clouds with fiery flashes, forcing the creeping phantasm to retreat, but only to return a moment later with renewed strength.

Night covered the earth with an impenetrable dome, no faint starlight, not the slightest ray of the pale moon. Darkness, gloom, and rain. At such a time, even the hungriest and most dangerous predator hides deep in its den, not risking to poke its nose outside.

Peaceful plowmen and villagers tightly lock all shutters and doors, unconsciously falling prostrate before holy icons, praying for their protection and safekeeping. For there is a belief that it is precisely during such dreadful foul weather that the Mistress of Death herself goes hunting, and woe to the unfortunate one she catches on the road, who did not manage to return and lock themselves securely at home. His torments will be indescribable, and any torture that might come to the perverted minds of the Holy Inquisition's executioners would seem to him a joyful delight.

 — A foolish belief, when you think about it. If this Mistress of Death is so powerful as they describe her, why doesn't she simply smash some village or even a fortress to pieces, and then enjoy the torments of the survivors to her heart's content? — the deep, quiet voice that escaped the woman's lips seemed to sound from everywhere at once, creating an impossible echo here. Even the flame momentarily flickered fearfully and burned less brightly, and the crackling ceased, as if the fire had indeed decided not to attract unnecessary attention from the owner of this strange voice. The room noticeably darkened.

 — Ah, Elmyrena, I didn't notice you approach, — the voice now sounded completely ordinary, and the fire in the fireplace of carved stone, which had quieted, began to flare up again. Now the first timid tongues of flame started to escape the cast-iron enclosure, glancing sideways at the mysterious woman by the window, as if trying to gauge her mood to signal to their own, saying, now it's safe to burn and crackle.

 — Oh, forgive me, Mistress, for so clumsily disturbing your peace, — in the emerald shimmer of a languid, velvety voice, there was sincere regret and annoyance. — I brought you dinner, my mistress. — With these words, the girl, whose attire consisted only of black sandals on a small platform with 15 cm stiletto heels, timidly walked to the middle of the room and with a graceful, stirring movement placed a silver patterned tray on an ebony table, whose antiquity could only be rivaled by its own sturdiness and solidity. Soon, small dishes and a carafe of a crimson-colored drink appeared on the dark polished surface, the elegance and taste of which would be envied even at the Eternal Feast of the Gods, where, according to legends, only valiant warriors who fell heroically in battle go.

 — You're walking around naked again, — there was not an iota of reproach in this half-question, half-statement.

 — What a slut you are, Ren, — at these words, spoken in the ringing silence (the fire in the fireplace, though it had flared up, still did not dare to crackle) in such an authoritative voice, the face of the girl setting the table flushed completely with shame.

 — Y-yes, Mistress, — her voice trembled from the surging excitement, as did her beautiful body. Her breathing became rapid and intermittent.

Gradually, gentle caresses gave way to rougher ones. Careful touches were replaced by a steel grip; her breasts were mercilessly kneaded like dough, smeared over her body, moved from side to side, brought together, and then pulled upward, as if trying to lift her entire body. Her nipples also got their share—they were ruthlessly twisted, tightly pinched between fingers. After a couple of minutes of such caresses, Elmyrena was ready to come. Between her legs, she was simply dripping; she felt so lustful, so depraved, just a flowing female and nothing more. The awareness of this burned her soul with the whip of shame, but the result

was diametrically opposite—the excitement only increased to the limit. And with each shameful thought, this limit grew and grew, and the excitement soared higher after it.

 — On your knees, bitch! — the voice again sounded like a thunderous whisper from everywhere at once, and the fire in the fireplace, which had grown bolder, immediately shrank into a trembling orange ball.

The naked girl immediately fell to all fours, invitingly arching her back and raising her rounded buttocks. In the right hand of the woman giving orders, a thin, flexible whip materialized from the air. It was as black as the night spread outside the window, and even blacker; it seemed to absorb any light around, soaking it into itself.

The whistle of the whip cutting through the air and the loud sound of the impact were drowned out by a gentle moan, expressing pleasure more than pain. A thin red stripe lay across the snow-white buttocks. The first blow was followed by a second, a third.

Elmyrena obediently stood in place and accepted such punishment. For what? Does it even matter? The Mistress wanted it so, and she must do everything to satisfy any whim of her mistress, especially since it was so pleasant. Pleasant to be HER thing, property, powerless slave, lustful bitch, dreaming only of new and new humiliations. With each burning, fiery blow of the whip, the desire to serve the Mistress, to belong to the Mistress, and to come again, to come violently and profoundly from fulfilling humiliating orders and realizing herself as a worthless slut, for unknown merits granted the honor of serving HER, rose within her.

 — Spread your legs wider, whore, — the voice thundered, seemingly right in her ears.

Elmyrena liked being called such words; it aroused her even more. She knew what should follow now and awaited it with a mixed feeling of fear and anticipation of unusual pleasure. Her expectations were justified. A not very strong, but sufficiently sharp blow landed on her perineum. One blow was enough for the slender blonde girl to collapse to the floor and writhe in the throes of an orgasm. Her beautiful eyes rolled back, her mouth twisted into a grimace of indescribable bliss. Loud moans began to escape her moist lips, gradually turning into something resembling a scream, only this scream made it clearer than clear that it spoke not of pain but of the pleasure being experienced. The first blow was followed by another and another, their strength gradually increasing with each swing of the hand. The girl on the floor was completely disoriented—it seemed she had just returned from the dizzying heights of bliss when another blow sent her back. An unceasing chain of explosions of universal pleasure, born again and again between her long legs, sent her to cloud-high heights.

Elmyrena opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor, all sweaty. In the fireplace, the fire crackled peacefully. Satisfaction and blissful lightness spread through her body like a wondrous elixir. Between her legs, it stung a little, but it was a sweet pain. Searching for the Mistress with her gaze, she found her sitting at the head of the table, steadily consuming the brought dishes. The masterfully crafted carafe of rock crystal was half empty. The girl knew what she had to do. Getting on her knees, she crawled to her mistress. It was something of a ritual—after each such whipping, Elmyrena was obliged to thank her mistress for the lesson taught, to thank her by licking her boots. This humiliating procedure always inflamed lust and desire in her, regardless of how many times she had come before. And now, barely touching the black shiny surface of the boots with her tongue, she felt a wave of passion roll through her entire body. The taste of her own secretions, left on the whip, which she also had to thank with kisses and her tongue, only intensified this feeling. Her cheeks flushed crimson again.

 — Stand up, — the voice, in an unknown way, again sounded completely ordinary, though the notes of authority had not disappeared.

 — Are you hungry? — now the girl was washed over by a wave of tenderness, generously flowing from the gentle, caring voice of her extraordinary mistress.

 — Oh, no, Mistress, what are you+ — Elmyrena's embarrassment from such affectionate treatment knew no bounds.

 — But you haven't eaten anything since morning, — this was more of a statement than a question.

The girl hesitated and blushed even more, not knowing how to respond.

 — Alright, bitch, then I'll feed you, — at these words, spoken so authoritatively and harshly, a stream of burning desire ran through Elmyrena's body.

The girl thought she wouldn't be able to survive such humiliation. Half the fruit bowl had already been inside her: large green grapes, leftover bananas, a couple of large tangerines, as well as an orange and a grapefruit. Each fruit first went into her with its peel, if it had one, then was taken out, peeled, and cut into neat slices. Then these slices, again fully immersed in her, often along with the Mistress's thin fingers holding them, and only then were sent to her mouth. Tears from the experienced fall again and again traced wet paths on her cheeks, flushed with shame, but this only intensified the already violent orgasms, which stretched in an endless series during her dinner. Fruits in "their own juice"—as her goddess expressed it, and just from this humiliating phrase alone, she was ready to come again and again.

Half the night passed unnoticed. The rain showed no sign of abating...

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